


Prodigious Progeny

by minkspit



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Adopted Children, Character Death, Coming of Age, Gen, Grandmother and Grandson Relationship, Grey Area Vermin, Grief, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Period-Typical Racism, Protective Grandma, Redwall is a messy place, Senile guardian humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 15:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkspit/pseuds/minkspit
Summary: There was an ongoing feud between Merrill and Skipper and Logalog about whether her beloved adopted grandson was a rat. They were correct, actually. Not that half-blind and senile Merrill noticed.





	1. Chapter 1

When Skipper heard the laundry lines twanging and the genial, chittery scolding, he knew this argument was going to repeat itself the way it always had gone. He sighed.

"...hello, Merrill, marm. How are you doin'?"

The grey face of a mouse peeked around the corner of a hanging shirt.

"Skipper! What a surprise to see you on this summer day." The mouse released the pin she had been holding and skittered forward, and Skipper scooped up the bucket of pins and set them aside so she wouldn't trip over them. He put them down as the mouse finished creaking over to him and patted at his wrist. "How are you faring? Well, I hope?"

"Lovely, marm," Skipper said, and patted her thin hand.

Merrill was a skinny, greying bundle of fur and dried sinew. She was covered in rattley shawls as old as she was, and she barely stood above the Skipper's hip. He could have plucked her up and cast her into the wind like a dandelion tuft if he wished to. A wiry pair of spectacles as skinny as her wrist balanced on her nose, though they did her as much good as her old broken pair. Merrill moved with a constant, energetic shuffle, and Skipper gave her another fond pat on the back after he'd patted her wrist.

"It's good to see you, Merrill," he said. "How've the berries been comin' along?"

"Good," Merrill said. She tapped her thin cane against the ground. "The bushes are full, and we've filled a good few baskets with them. After the season is over, we're going to have plenty of hazelnut bread with blackberry jam."

Skipper hummed and licked his lips. "Delicious-soundin', marm. You don't think a few o' those jars could be spared to make it over to the holt, do you?"

"Oh, I'll consider it," Merrill said, "like I do every year, you hopeless berryhound." Skipper grinned.

Merrill turned her blinded face to the left when she heard a rustle in the bushes and glimpsed a grey blob coming up the dirt path.

"Who's this? One of your grand young 'uns?"

"Merrill," Logalog's voice rang out, and Skipper choked back a laugh. "Glad to visit you again."

"Logalog!" Merrill said, and her aged franticness resumed. She made it to Logalog right before she joined Skipper, and the greeting began anew. Merrill's voice was frail and quavery, but Skipper knew a core of steel ran through it. Merrill was as undefiable and steadfast as a mountain when she wanted to be.

The general chatter came to an end when Merrill flicked her paper-thin ears and sniffed at the air.

"You both smell like travel and water. I'm surprising your clothes are still holding up with all the rinses without drying they go through; if you weren't old beasts who ought to know how to look after yourselves, I'd tell you to give me your laundry one day. Speaking of- Tamar! How is the laundry coming?"

Skipper's heart sank when the laundry line rustled. The regular conversation was over. Logalog's mouth skewed. Skipper kept a straight face when movement traveled up the colorful, sun-speckled clothes on the clothesline. The sheet nearby was pushed aside, and the brown face of a rat came into view. A basket was balanced on his hip with one arm.

"Well, grandma," Tamar said. "Half of it is almost dry. Only the sheets and my jerkin need longer."

"Good. Do you have the pins?" Merrill said. "We need to make sure none of them get lost again. Two have been missing since the last load."

"Of course, grandma."

Merrill ambled back over to her grandson to pat at the wicker basket and take the handful of pins from him. When she turned around, Skipper and Logalog were standing together, and at a distance. Neither of them had moved, but a separation had naturally occurred. Logalog's arms were crossed. Skipper kept his arms at his side.

"How are you, Tamar?" he said, keeping a pleasant tone of voice. The pins clattered as Merrill dropped them into their bucket.

"Well," Tamar said. "This afternoon has been hot." He was unflinching and unreadable, and Skipper wasn't sure if he was born with a deadpan expression, or if speaking with too many woodlanders had permanently stapled it to his face. Nor was he sure if Tamar had been born with all of his scars or his uneven, sharp incisors, or if woodlanders had put the former on him too.

Tamar was the most rough example of a rat Skipper had ever seen. He was twice the height of his guardian, and while Skipper still towered over him, he towered over the Logalog and Merrill's twiggy little form. Despite his age, he was already developing a hunch to his back that would mature into a menacing loom in adulthood, and he was covered in scruffy, unkempt brown fur that never laid down no matter how much Merrill scolded and combed him.

His eyes were dark and beady, his teeth were sharp and long, and the small tatters to his ears made him look like he had just crawled out of the thorny blackberry bushes and onto the lawn. The fresh cuts and scrapes across his face, pink nose and hands from blackberry picking for his grandmother all afternoon didn't help. Skipper wasn't altogether comfortable around him, but the rat had shown himself to be a fair beast so far, so he reserved judgement. With some hoop earrings, a cutlass and a scowl added, Skipper thought, he would be well on his way to looking like a corsair.

Logalog, who had already decided that Tamar had reached the end of that journey and was beginning on another, didn't bother with the politeness.

"Tamar," she said, barely beyond stiff.

"That is my name," Tamar said. His dark eyes remained unblinking.

Before Logaglog could reply, Merrill plowed on again.

"Tamar and I have been wrestling with the blackberries and lumps of laundry," Merrill said, unaware of the stiffness. She flattened at any attempts at tension. That and Tamar's bored expression didn't seem to allow room for it. "I started at one end of the line, and he started at the other. We've been washing out the berry stains and pulling thorns out of our paws since noon, and we've still got three more jars to handle today. But the laundry has to come down first. I'm glad I have such a tall and strong grandson."

Skipper noted that Tamar was the only one with any cuts or briar scrapes. A few bandages were plastered along his fingers and hands that half covered the cuts or missed them completely. The laundry line swayed as a breeze pushed by, and Skipper blinked when he saw a shirt hanging upside down.

The half of the laundry line that crept behind the house had the clothes perfectly hung. The other had shirts, pants, and sheets tacked up at every angle. A sleeve waved at Skipper from the ground. Its nearby companion, an inside out jerkin, trembled in the wind.

"Grandma did most of the work," Tamar said. "She has a way with laundry."

"Nonsense, you helped plenty," Merrill said, reaching to pat Tamar's arm and missing completely to pat his ribs instead. "You're grown up enough to mind your own clothing without me looking over you. I remember having to teach all the shrews and otter babes in the holt to fold their own clothing. That was a journey. Some of the otters three seasons your seniors couldn't make head or tail of a long-sleeved shirt, and some of the grown-ups  _still_ can't. I hope you're not in that number anymore, Skipper."

"Of course not, marm," Skipper said, trying to avoid a suspicious look that missed him by a solid two feet.

"And you, Logalog- you used to never wash your clothes, period," Merrill said. "You would climb up the nearest tree, dirtier than an otter's shrimping paws, with your pockets bursting with pebbles, and shoot them at all the passing shrewwives when they turned their backs. You were a fiery little girl. It was a good thing all the trees you could climb weren't taller than a bush; your mother would pluck you right out." She chuckled.

Skipper felt his face burning with embarrassment, but he couldn't tell if Tamar found the antecedent amusing, or even cared. Mossflower woods could have caught fire and been swept to the arctic by a tsunami as the world changed its center, and there would be Tamar, viewing it all with his deadpan sincerity as he helped his chittering grandmother step over a pile of freezing, flaming wreckage.

Logalog swelled with angry mortification, but Merrill trampled her interruption as she continued.

"Tamar was always a well-behaved babe, aside from crawling off whenever he got hungry and chewing on the chairs." She patted Tamar on the arm and drew her shawls in with another hand. "But he grew up to be a nice and good looking young mouse, and I'm proud of him."

"He grew up into a young something," Logalog said. She didn't deign to turn her full glare on Tamar. "But it wasn't a mouse."

Merrill clicked her teeth.

"Nonsense," she said. "My grandson has a while to go, but he's still as bright a mouse as anyone else. Brighter, maybe. He's a dear; he knew just how to help the Fieldmice family get their children started on their chores. After he promised to pay a visit and help with the housework if they didn't, they immediately set at working. In fact, Mrs. Fieldmouse gave us two pies to make sure Tamar stayed home and her children learned their lesson."

"It was very considerate of her," Tamar said. He remained stoic as Merrill prattled on. One of his tattered ears flicked back, and he didn't flinch as a fly hovered over a raw cut on his pink nose. Tamar twitched his whiskers and scared it off.

Skipper saw Logalog swelling and opening her mouth as Merrill blissfully patted the scarred rat next to her, looking admirably at his belly instead of his face or missing his face by a paw's width as she always did, and he expelled a quiet sigh. He could already smell the argument rolling around again. Might as well get it over with.

"Look. Merrill. This has gone on too long," Skipper said. "Yore grandson isn't a mouse. He's huge, for pike's sake. Have you consid–"

"Now you hold on a second.  _Huge?_ " Merrill said. "My grandson's a hardy boy and I don't skimp on feeding him his meals, thank you; a plump child is a happy one, and I don't think you have the right to shame my son for being sturdy, Skipper!"

"Marm. Marm, that's not what I meant–"

"I feed you three times a day, don't I, son?" Merrill said. She turned to Tamar. Tamar took her fringed shawl off her shoulders when she tugged at it. "We always have a good spread on the table, and you never go hungry?"

"Yes, you do, grandma. I eat plenty," Tamar said. He had the face of one given sage advice. The fringed shawl hung over his arm like an overgrown doily. "It's healthy for a growing young one."

Skipper desperately tried again.

"Marm, I'm not sayin—"

" _You_  were a plump baby! And you too, Logalog! You two had cheeks as big as apples," Merrill said. "Skipper, you had a rudder thicker than my arm, and you were a rolling, giggly little shrewbabe. Matter of fact, Skipper, I've held your grandniece, and I know she's not a light little trinket either, as she shouldn't be. Children need to be  _fed_."

"Of course, grandma."

Skipper and Logalog groaned.

"What?" Merrill said. "You and all the holt and Guosim children never stopped eating, at least when the Guosim could stop arguing enough to put food into their mouths. Arguing spoils a meal for everyone but shrews. For them, it's ruined without it."

"Must be something in the water," Tamar said. Logalog's glare rolled off him.

"Watch what you say, you- "

"You what?" Merrill said, and there was a hint of iron in her voice. Logalog wisely quieted.

"Loyal young 'un," Skipper said. He resumed the usual pleading. That seemed to gain an ant's inch more with Merrill than being aggressive. "Merrill, marm, we've got nothing against yore grandson. I know yore very attached to him after you found him on the river bank, and Tamar is a good apple, he gets along with everyone more or less," Skipper said, only half lying through his teeth. "But he's not what yore thinkin' he is."

"Then what is he?" Merrill said. Logalog huffed and grumbled when Skipper put an arm out in front of her to still her response. The turning leaves in the branches above shook sunlight over the laundry and patchy cottage yard.

"He's a three letter word," Skipper said, his voice filled with suggestion. They all knew of vermin raids and the power of words. It had taken but one four letter word to reveal Veil's true nature when he was thrown from Redwall. Vermin entered the world in blood, and they left it in blood. Logalog grimaced at the thought of the hordes wandering about Mossflower.

"Skipper," Merrill said, blooming with chastisement, "'mouse' is not a three word, and nor is 'child.' You may have spelled it that way as a dibbon, but those days are long over, and we've been over this."

Skipper spluttered. Logalog broke free from under his burly arm.

"That isn't the word he means," she said.

"Maybe he means 'son,'" Tamar suggested.

"That would fit," Merrill said. She polished her spectacles with an edge of her shawl and chuffed in approval. The upside down shirt on the clothesline behind her waved. "How clever, Skipper; that's very sweet of you. And right after I called Tamar bright. I knew you were part of my favorite batch for a reason. Though he's a little too young for that role, and I see him more as a grandchild, I wouldn't object to him being called such."

"What? No," Skipper said, floundering, "That's not what I- "

"I appreciate it," Tamar said.

"No," Logalog said, "he doesn't mean son at all."

"Of course he doesn't," Merrill said. She clicked her tongue. "That's the nature of a pun, Logalog, dear."

Logalog looked ready to explode.

"This isn't getting anywhere. Merrill, your grandson is a rat."

" _Excuse me?_ Logalog! Mind your mouth!" Merrill said, alive with indignation. "You might use that tongue around your crew, but this isn't a shrew boat. We're civilized, and we don't use filthy language around here."

"Never, Grandma."

"Furthermore, my grandson is a fine, upstanding young beast and I won't have you insulting him. You, the leader of the Guosim, insulting a child! The nerve of you! My grandson is perfectly honest, moral boy who is not sneaky or underhanded in the least, and I don't want to hear you calling him so again!"

"Dark Forest, Merrill," Skipper said, exasperated, "she's not calling him a rat because he's insulting him, she's callin' him a rat because he's  _literally a rat–_ "

"Skipper! I expected better from you. You irresponsible rogue, apologize this instant!" Merrill said, turning on him. "How could you? First Logalog starts using inappropriate language around my grandson–  _on_  my grandson, for that matter– and then you approve of it? And you two are the babes I bounced, and the grown leaders of the holt and Guosim. I'm disappointed in you."

"Marm, please."

"But he is one," Logalog said. "Tamar is a  _rat_ ," she said, glaring at him. "A huge one. He looks like a corsair, and if you weren't so set on keeping this vermin- "

"What word did you just use?" Scandalized appall poured over Merrill's face. Her spectacles trembled. "Logalog! I thought you had learned enough years ago from all the washing out your mouth with soap, and that you had matured since then, but apparently not. I'm ashamed of you, and embarrassed for your mother."

"I'm sorry they upset you, grandma." Tamar patted Merrill's shoulder. His long claws gently poked her fur. "I think we know who the real rats are."

"Yes we do, grandson." Merrill said. She was too angry to chastise Tamar for his bad language, and her little body shook from sheer disappointment as she leveled a blind glare in the wrong direction. "Yes we do."

" _Oh for Martin's sake."_

"I think you ought to go home," Merrill said stiffly, and Skipper gave up. Tamar had moved back to tending the laundry after he comforted his grandmother. His expression hadn't changed once throughout the visit.

Skipper wished for one desperate moment that he could read him. Had he felt anger or disgust towards them, woodlanders who had killed hundreds of his kind and were trying to reveal him, or fear that they had shown up again? Was he laughing at the argument repeated for the umpteenth time?

"It's been nice seeing you, Skipper, Logalog, but it's afternoon, and you need to return home- perhaps to relearn some manners."

"We're going," Logalog said. She was sour, but she knew when she'd been defeated. "Thank you for having us, Merrill."

As Skipper and Logalog walked away, Skipper watched Tamar pull down the laundry and fold it. He put away a hanging dishcloth, and then made it to dangling jerkin. Without breaking eye contact, Tamar pulled down the jerkin and folded it, still inside out. He placed the perfectly folded jerkin in his basket.

Skipper moved that much faster down the dirt path, his ears burning. Logalog had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him.

It was silent, but Tamar was definitely laughing at them.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a midsummer day, and Merrill was stricken with a grandmotherly urge to search for jam berries- after airing the sheets and taking a walk, of course- so Tamar helped her pack a parcel of lunch and put on her traveling shawl, and the two headed out into Mossflower.

The sun leaked between the leaves and watered the bright clumps of bluebells, foxgloves, and grass. It left bright splotches on shadowy Mossflower woods and the winding dirt road through it, and Merrill's cane clicked cheerily against the pebbles while she trotted down the path.

As always, Merrill took the lead. She could barely see distinct figures past the end of her cane, but she trotted down the road in a bundle of weaving happiness. She constantly almost veered into a tree or missed a curve in the path, but at the last second, she swerved and went on her merry way.

Tamar walked behind her, carrying both of their bags and listening to his grandmother ramble about tart recipes. It was easier to walk behind grandmother. It gave him more room to stretch his legs without fear of her tripping over his tail. Tamar didn't try to stop her or correct her path. Merrill knew where she was going, and it was useless to interfere with forces of nature.

Besides that, Tamar had discovered that woodlanders were a little less paranoid when he walked behind Merrill. They always seemed to believe he was kidnapping her whenever she walked behind him, or noticed him first, and went straight to their threatening and screeching routine. If he walked too far behind her they believed he was stalking her. A big, menacing rat following an elderly mouse to attack her for her jar of jam and other precious possessions, as one did.

But Tamar was aware of which one of them was immortal, and far better armed, so he allowed his grandmother to traipse in front of him while he relaxed in the sun and loped down the path behind her.

"Tamar, do you have the jam jars and scones wrapped up?"

"Yes, Grandma."

"Good." Merrill balanced her spectacles. "Those are very important. If any of those were to break, we'd lose all the jam into the satchel, and it'd leak all over the bag and the scones and make a mess to Salamandastron come. The scones might be edible, but the bag isn't, and you know what we have to say about messy bags."

"They're intolerable, Grandma," Tamar said. "If you make the mess, you have to clean it up, even if it means eating the jam right out of your bag."

Merrill gave a fond tap of her cane as she narrowly avoided running into a tree.

"Absolutely," she said. "I can't bear beasts not cleaning up after themselves. You can make all the mess you want, gracious, I won't stop you, but you had better clean it up."

The path was growing steeper and more bumpy, and Tamar noticed Merrill slowing and wheezing. He stopped and put a paw on her shoulder.

"Grandma, you're getting tired. Why don't I carry you?"

"Oh, thank you, dear," Merrill said, and Tamar scooped her up. Merrill was lighter than either of their bags, and she made herself comfortable on her grandson's shoulders before he resumed walking. "I'm not nearly as young as I used to be. I used to chase after all the otter and shrew babes in the holt camp to keep them in line from dusk 'til dawn, and now all it takes is a brisk jaunt to crimp my step. I feel so silly."

"You aren't silly, Grandma." Tamar climbed the slope. He ignored the nettles stinging his tail and feet. He had thick skin. They didn't bother him.

Merrill was trying to flatten her grandson's scruffy headfur when they rounded a corner, and Tamar heard the sounds of voices. He immediately felt wary, and his concern doubled tenfold when he heard the posh accents and military lingo. This was bad for him. Hares did not like rats, or any vermin, point. Merrill chattered while she brushed at his fur and gently chastised him for not keeping it in order.

Even as the hares neared, Tamar braced himself and strode on. This was the path to where Grandmother Merrill wanted to go, and he wouldn't deviate from it. He as much of a right as woodlanders to be on it- a half right, once he considered all the yelling and sling stones that would dock it- but it was still a right. Tamar was carrying his grandmother, and if they wanted him to leave, they would have to force her off the path too.

And if the hares wanted to tangle with an undefeated force of nature, they could.

Merrill was discussing baking when the hares appeared.

"Our first batch of gooseberries will be ready to pick in a few weeks, and we ought to get the baskets ready. They'll be sour, but they'll be fit to go into a wine, and we can get started on the pies if you'll mind your paws, Tamar, since you pricked them up too much last time to crimp the pies properly- oh! Hello!" Merrill's eyesight detected the two blobs moving down the road, and she beamed. The hares froze and gawked. "Good day, travelers. How are you?"

Tamar didn't think the hares were going to recover in time to reply.

"Good day, m'am," one finally forced out. He was the shorter of the duo, and Tamar didn't know how he was still on his feet. A puff of fur stuck up between his ears. Several shiny pins stretched across his coat. "We're- fine, wot."

Merrill turned her gaze on the other hare.

"And how are you?" she said.

The second hare, the taller and thicker of the two, had yet to reclaim his tongue. Tamar believed his eyes were going to pop out and fall onto the path if he kept that expression. He had a jar to collect them, if needed.

"I think he's doing well, Grandma," Tamar said. The taller hare reached over and closed his shorter friend's jaw.

Both of the hares were young, and Tamar was surprised they hadn't bounced off the road or frozen permanently out of shock. Both looks would have suited them.

"I would hope so," Merrill said, and the hare finally found his tongue.

"I'm doin' spiffin', m'am, wot," he said. He sounded dazed. "What about you?"

"Lovely," Merrill said, in the charmed way all grandmothers did. She tapped her cane against her grandson's scruffy breast. "The travelers asked a question, grandson. How are you?"

"Wonderful," Tamar said. "I'm enjoying the weather."

One of the hares made a choking noise. Tamar couldn't tell who. He kept his usual expression.

"So, m'am," the shorter hare said, still sounding dazed, "I see you're travelin', wot, but your name is…?"

"I forgot to introduce myself. How rude. Well, if you'll pardon me, my name is Merrill," Merrill said. "Some beasts use m'am or marm, but just Merrill is fine if you want."

"Right." The shorter hare's eyes roved to Tamar. "So you're Merrill. But-"

"And now that I've finished my introduction, what're your names?" Merrill said. "Don't allow me to steal the conversation. You two sound like a fine pair."

"Oh. My name is Brigsbery, Brigs for short, wot," the shorter hare said. "And this chap is Flandin. We're members of the Long Patrol."

"Nice to meet you, wot," said Flandin, who did not look recovered.

"The same goes to you," Merrill said. "You two have charming names. Not the long mouthful most hare names are, but still very much Salamandastron. You don't have to worry about being a XIIV or a VII or keeping things straight at a reunion, and that's far easier, don't you think? It's hard enough to keep track of everyone at a reunion to start with, or so I've heard."

"Jolly well right, m'am," Brigs said. He looked at Tamar. "But who-" He cleared his throat when he saw Merrill's questioning look. "His name is…?" Brigs gestured at Tamar.

"That's my grandson, Tamar," Merrill said. She beamed. "You don't sound much older than him. You haven't been in the Long Patrol too long, have you?"

"Your  _grandson?_ " Flandin said.

"Not more than two seasons, I imagine- why yes, my grandson," Merrill said. She patted at the untamable scruff on Tamar's head. It instantly popped back up. "Tamar, dear, put me down so I can greet these young 'uns properly. It's hard to be social sitting up here."

Tamar put Merrill down. She straightened her shawls and steadied herself. Her spectacles stayed balanced.

The instant Tamar set Merrill down and she had moved away, Brigs lunged with lightning speed. Tamar was looking at Merrill's shawl one instant before he was struck harder than ever before in his life. Pain slammed through his skull, the world spun, and Tamar hit the ground. His ears were ringing. When he pushed himself up on his knees, the colors around him were still spinning, and he could feel glass jars clinking around in the bags on his back.

"Got him! Flandin, keep the old lady back over there. We don't know what the vermin was plannin' or what he's told her, and better safe than sorry. Captain Yorick is goin' to have a bally fit over this when he shows up. Nasty lookin' blighter this one is, wot."

"He looks like he's just crawled out of a pit. With those nasty ragged ears and that set of chompers, I wouldn't want him anywhere near me, wot. We're lucky we got here soon. Gates knows what he would have done."

"What's going on?"

"Don't worry, m'am," Flandin reassured Merrill as Tamar slowly staggered to his feet, "you're safe now. We've got control of things."

"Tamar? Are you alright?" Merrill said. Tamar couldn't answer her over the pain throbbing in his cheek.

"I socked him," Brigs said with no small amount of pride. "Nailed him right in the jaw, wot."

_Whack._

Brigs yelped with pain as Merrill hit him with her cane. He danced away, waving his smarting paw.

"Merrill, m'am, calm down!"

"She got me!" Brigs said, wringing his paw. "Bally Dark Forest Gates!"

_Whack._

"Ow!" Brigs squeaked and pulled back when Merrill smacked him in the shin with her cane. He grabbed his ankle, bouncing on one foot. Merrill's next cane swing barely missed them both. "Bloody garterguts, Flandin, she's lost all her marbles and buttons to boot, wot! She's tryin' to wallop me!"

"How dare you!" Merrill said. Tamar recovered, but he choose to sit down and watch as Merrill began assailing Brigs and Flandin with her cane, mainly Brigs. Despite being blind, most of her cane blows struck home, and the hare was hard pressed to keep his shins, wrist, ears, and nose untouched.

"How dare you hit my grandson! Since when do travelers, especially young hares, attack other travelers? And unprovoked! If your parents were present, I'd give both of your ears a wringing, and remind you of what proper manners are!"

"M'am, he's a vermin!  _Ow!_ " Brigs stumbled back when one of Merrill's blows hit his ear. He grabbed it, pulling the tender ear down with watery eyes. "Flan, help me!"

"Miss, calm down!" Flandin said. He grabbed Merrill from behind to halt her swinging cane, but was almost clipped in the nose himself. "He's not the one you should be hittin', wot, we were tryin' to help you!"

"You should apologize to my grandson immediately, you ruffians! I thought I had met two pleasant young folk his age, but you both act like shameless delinquents. First you hit him, and then you insult him? For shame!"

"You should let go of her," Tamar said. Flandin ignored him. He received a smart tap on the nose for it.

"Eep!"

"Tamar?" Merrill said. She halted her assault, and Flandin helped Brigs up while he gingerly nursed his nose. Merrill returned to Tamar and began checking him over, reaching for all the wrong places. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Grandma," Tamar said. His jaw ached, but he had regained his senses, and Merrill's wiry paw felt over the cheek opposite the one that had been socked. "I'm fine."

While Merrill finished worrying over Tamar, the hares returned to gawking, goggle-eyed. Tamar was mildly concerned Brigs' expression was going to stick that way. Flandin already looked stuck.

"You really don't see anything bally  _strange_  about this?" Flandin burst out.

"The primroses are blooming late," Tamar said. Merrill huffed.

Brigs and Flandin gaped.

At that moment, the sound of marching feet filled the air. None of the group had time to move before they were surrounded by hares. A singular hare with pepper-flecked fur and an array of shiny badges greater than Brigs' stepped out onto the path. He was older than both of them, and he walked with an authoritative spring in his step. Tamar instantly knew he was more important. Hares were like magpies: the more shiny pieces they collected, the better, and they were always ready to fight over them.

"What's going on, wot?" he said. His eyes swept over Tamar and Merrill, and the sore Brigs and Flandin. He did a doubletake at Tamar.

Before any of the hares could stir, Merrill perked up. Tamar saw her spectacles quiver on her nose.

"Are you the leader of this party?" she said.

The hare's gaze flew back to Merrill.

"Why yes, m'am, I am," he said. He stood taller. The badges on his chest gleamed. "Captain Yorick of the Third Division of the Long Patrol, wot."

Merrill shot off like a firecracker.

"You should be  _ashamed_ ," she said, and the scorn in her voice took Captain Yorick aback.

"I'm sorry?"

"These two mannerless brutes, part of your group, assaulted my grandson! We were merely taking a stroll," Merrill said, and all eyes went to Tamar, "when, without warning, they struck him! Furthermore, they refused to apologize, and when I told them off, they promptly added insult on top of injury on my poor son."

"With all due respect, I don't think that's your grandson, wot," Colonel Yorick said. Tamar could feel the hare eyeing him. He stared back. Woodlanders weren't as intimidating as they thought they were. "Brigsbery and Flandin are part of my group, yes. If they behaved roughly around you I'll take care of them, wot. But I don't blame Brigs for lashin' out. I would have too, if I saw a kindly old lady like you bein' followed by a bloomin'-"

"And now the Captain!" Merrill said. Tamar sat back and relaxed. "First your two ill-behaved rogues insult my grandson, and now you? Appalling. The illness is spreading. First, it was Skipper and Logalog, and now, a Captain of the blessed  _Long Patrol_. Do you usually allow members to attack innocent residents of Mossflower out for a stroll without thinking, and without apologizing? Or has that been a recent habit?"

"Not at all. It never has been. I'm sorry," Captain Yorick said, stunned, and the entire Patrol squirmed in discomfort. Their bravado and previous cockiness was fading.

"We didn't mean it that way," Flandin said. Brigs was still rubbing his ear.

"Watch out, sah. She can swing that cane like she's Russano the second."

"You didn't mean it that way? Then why did you attack?" Merrill turned to the entire contingent. Though she was half blind, she waved her cane up and down the ranks and began scolding all of them. "More than anything, I'm ashamed that the Long Patrol, of all things- the representatives of Salamandastron and valency, of well-behaved might and bravery, supposed to be here to protect us- were reduced to nothing but highway bullies since the last time I looked. "

"It is horrible, Grandma," Tamar said. Captain Yorick and the patrol shrank further.

"I can't imagine what their parents would think, what their grandparents would think. And now, they're ringed around my grandson and I like a gang, keeping us from continuing on our way. Some patrol!"

The last words were a final blow. All the hares flinched. Captain Yorick slunk forward to offer an apology while the other patrol members finished dissolving their circle. Merrill adjusted her spectacles.

"M'am, I'm truly sorry," he said. Other murmurs of apology followed from the patrol. "We didn't mean to halt or injure you or grandson in any way. " He glared at Brigs and Flandin, but they didn't need any prompting.

"I'm sorry for the trouble, m'am, wot."

"Dreadfully sorry." Brigs turned to Tamar. "Sorry about sockin' you, sah. I wasn't thinkin', wot. It won't happen again."

"If there's anything to make up for it or the trouble we've caused you, we will," Captain Yorick said. He was the image of sheepish humility.

"No, I believe you've helped enough, thank you," Merrill said. She waved at Tamar. "Tamar, dear, get out my other shawl. I'm cold from disappointment."

Tamar almost grinned when he draped the shawl over her shoulders and the hares shrank. Pain was still throbbing through his cheek, but it was worth it.

"Now, we have berries to pick and an outing to finish," Merrill said, swinging her cane and walking on. Tamar pulled up the packs on his back and followed after her. The hares stayed behind, and Tamar kept a straight face as he and his grandmother passed them all and moved right past Captain Yorick, Flandin, and Brigs.

"Apology accepted," Tamar said. Captain Yorick gave a quiet wheeze. Brigs, Tamar thought, needed Flandin's help to close his mouth again.

He didn't look back as he followed a grumbling, head-shaking Merrill down the path towards the berry bushes. The hares' eyes followed them until they turned a corner, and even then, Tamar could still feel their staring falling on the bushes at the bend. Dappled sunlight fell over them all.

"Unbelievable," Merrill said. "Everywhere I look, it seems like beasts have forgotten themselves and their manners. Grandson, I hope you'll never be so rude to someone."

"Never, Grandma."

"Good." Merrill hummed in approval. Tamar stepped over a pebble and mulled over a thought.

He had never been called 'sir' before.


End file.
